"It's finally ready, m'lord," shrieked one of the Defiled towards the ceiling, his abhorrent eyes writhing madly within their sockets. Around him, bodies lay mutilated, torn asunder in a blood-stained festival of entrails, lungs, hearts, and human skin cut so cleanly no tear could be seen. They were all organized, forming a sort of barbaric ritual.
At the center hovered a golden edge dagger, stained red. Red with the blood of Altair Blackwood.
"M'lord, we offer you his blood," The Defiled One exclaimed, wrapping his arms around his chest. He moaned, bathing in the blood mist. "The Blood of Altair Blackwood is now yours."
A dim scarlet glow pulsated from the golden edge of the ritualistic dagger. It swirled, pulling at the tendrils of blood along the blade, drawing it into the metal until only its mirrored surface remained.
